Fragile
by ShawnBassett
Summary: Nick responds to the case of a double attempted murder, and through a series of other encounters, is convinced that he should be living life much differently than he has been. SLASH, Greg/Nick, some violence/language. Minor recurring OCs, maybe? Likely.
1. Chapter 1: The Scene

A/N: This is my first-ever fic, and it's not even in my intended fandom. It's also un-beta'd, so if you'd like to beta it, message me? I have no idea of the protocol for this situation. I'm also sorry if information is incorrect in this story, but this is where inspiration struck first, so it's likely going to be the first story I finish. I appreciate help in all forms :D

DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'em, except for my own. The rest belong to those filthy rich executives.

WARNINGS: If you don't like slash, or other related themes, why are you reading this? Read something else and get over it. Mind you, this has no slash in it, but it's gonna show up in later chapters, believe me.

So, I'ma get out of your way, and let you read!  
Thanks,

Shawn!

* * *

All I can seem to do is think about how pathetic my life is right now, how expensive school is, and how much I hate working where I do. I'm _supposed _to be an undergraduate student, but here I am, working two jobs just to pay the bills school keeps sending me every August. So I resigned myself to working a crappy pair of jobs three years ago so I could avoid them like the plague later on in life.

Day after day it's the same old, same old. Wake up, eat, walk, work, walk, eat, and then sleep. These doldrums of days continue seemingly endlessly until the college I attend decides it's time for my money to be put to use. Eight months later, it starts again.

I really make no qualms about my dislike for either job, slinging coffee or serving fast-food, but it's a stage of life that everyone needs to go through, right? I mean, you can just _tell_ which people have never worked in the fast-food or retail industries because they're so goddamn rude. But they're not the reason I'm writing this.

Every day, I greet the regulars with a smile, get chewed out for putting too much sugar in some stranger's coffee or the wrong toppings, get occasional praise for being quick and perfect, get hit on by people I have no interest in. I just smile and get them served quickly and efficiently.

However, the people I work with are a different story. I love them, but hate it all at the same time. I have a few favourites, like Molly, the closer at the burger joint. She's an older lady, but filled to the brim with kind words and advice. I have a few friends that work there part-time as well. If it weren't for them, I would have run away screaming a long time ago.

It all started on an unseasonably chilly August night. It was 12:30 in the morning. I had just gotten off work, having finished cleaning up and closing down for the night. I didn't live too far away from work, and I wasn't the only one on the sidewalk, but I still didn't feel too well, considering the chill in the air. I had only gotten a few blocks away from work, and I still had a mile or two before I got home. I had my earphones in my ears, and my iPod pumping the tunes into my head, drowning out the cacophony that is Las Vegas traffic. I was walking in time with the music, my left foot keeping with the downbeat, and my right with the upbeat. I was singing along with the music in my head, and was so absorbed that I wasn't really paying attention to what was going on around me.

I was vaguely aware of someone yelling behind me, but I paid no attention to it. Then I heard it. A gunshot rang off the buildings bordering the road, sharply echoing the gun's report down the street. I whirled around to see a man staggering down the street, pistol in hand, shouting something slurred badly by the night's consumption of cheap liquor. I started to back away with my hands up, looking to my left, where there was a lady with a late-night grocery store bag in hand, filled with fresh fruit. Her smooth blonde hair and carefully applied makeup were at odds with her terror-widened eyes and tears making streaks down her face, cloudy with foundation.

I slowly reached my right hand down to reach the wallet that was in the back pocket of my jeans. With my left hand, I pulled my iPod out of my pocket, and had wrenched the earphones from my ears. The guy with the gun was still slurring so badly I couldn't understand him, and he was waving the gun more aggressively. The woman and I were begging to be let go, not to be hurt. Just take our money and leave.

The woman beside me was shaking visibly, holding her purse out for our assailant to take and to leave us alone. I had my wallet and iPod in my right hand, alongside my left being held up in a gesture of surrender. The woman was doing the same, until, while backing up, the heel of one of her pumps got caught in a crack in the sidewalk, causing the heel to snap. She stumbled, catching the man off-guard, and he reacted, sending another deafening _pop_ into the street, this time, the bullet finding a target in the woman's abdomen.

I reacted, turning to my left and I caught her before her head collided with the building on the side of the street. My sudden movement was in contrast with my careful, measured steps as we were being stared down. He panicked, and shot again, catching me in the right shoulder. I cried out, as I felt pain rip through my shoulder. I was vaguely aware of the blood seeping through my uniform shirt as I concerned myself with keeping pressure on the woman's wound just below her ribcage, as I'd seen people do on TV. I made sure to talk to her, to keep her out of shock.

"Sweetheart, it's OK. I'm here, what's your name?" I asked, trying to keep my voice from shaking too much. Her eyes slid slowly upwards to meet mine, as she was slumped against the building wall, her head resting against the polished granite façade. Tears were pouring steadily out of her baleful brown eyes.

"I have three children. Did you know that? Three." She struggled to form the words. "My oldest is seven. What will they do without me? I'm going to die." She seemed resigned to the fact. I freed a hand from their current duty, wiped it off on my pants, and tilted her chin to face me.

"You will _not_ die. Your children will still have their mother. Don't you dare quit on them, or me. I'm not trying this hard for you just leave your family behind. Now, tell me your name." I tried not to be too hysterical sounding, but I needed her to keep her mind positive.

"Cheryl. Cheryl Morningside."

"Okay Cheryl. He left your purse behind. You have a cell phone in there that I can use to call the police?" I asked, finding calm easier to attain now.

"Yeah, 's in the pocket on the outside."

"Now I need you to keep pressure on there with your hand. Do you think you can do that while I find your phone?"

"Yeah." She was sounding breathless. My right shoulder was really starting to flare, sending waves of pain through the rest of my body. I had to move quickly. Mercifully, all our stuff was left scattered around the sidewalk, and a crowd was beginning to form. Not one person came forward to help, offer to call the police, nothing.

I fetched her purse, and sure enough, her phone was on the outside. My vision was beginning to swim, but thankfully three numbers aren't hard to dial. I did, and waited for the dispatcher to pick up.

"Emergency. Police, ambulance or fire?" said a cool, female voice.

"Police and ambulance. I have a woman here who was just shot in the stomach, and I took a shot in the shoulder. We need help, fast. " I said, speaking quickly

"Where are you?" came the voice.

I gave her the location.

"Five minutes. I'll stay on the line with you until they arrive."

Her name turned out to be Candace, she lived in Las Vegas, and was going to school part-time. As it were, she went to the same school I did. She kept the conversation light and banal, distracting me from the situation at hand. Finally, I could hear sirens shrieking through the night, and I never thought I'd be happy to hear them. So many times they'd interrupted my sleep before, but now, they were the only things I wanted to hear.

The EMTs took over for me as Cheryl was loaded onto a stretcher and into the back of the ambulance. People cleared out of the way as police officers poured out of a sea of white cruisers with red and blue lights throwing streetlamps into harsh shadows on the fronts of buildings. CSIs were coming out of shiny black Denalis, with caution tape in hand. One approached me, depositing his silver case on the ground as he brought his face level with mine. The stitching on his vest read "Stokes" in large, bold capital letters.

My shoulder flared again, and my vision started to spin, just as the CSI called Stokes was approaching me. He said something, but I don't remember what. After that, I recall being in the ambulance, someone tending to my shoulder, a hand on my left hand, then nothing at all.

"It's going to be all right," a voice promised. "It's going to be okay."

And I believed it.

* * *

Yay! First chapter done! Now to see what the reception's like, and to see if I should continue this or quit while I'm ahead...

Reviews are very much appreciated, especially at this embryonic stage. So, uh, input, please? I'll love you forever :)

KTHXBAI  
~Shawn


	2. Chapter 2:The Lab

Author's Note: La la la, chapter twooo. Hope you like it, please review! Suggestions for possible future scenarios are nice, seeing as my brain isn't really working right now due to me not needing it during the summer break, but I hope you like it all the same. Reviews for the first chapter were great, thank you so much! They're the reason chapter 2 exists, dontcha know?

WARNINGS: Future slash, for one. I know there's none in this chapter, or the first, but there's bound to be some, so don't say I didn't warn you. Violence, usual drama, all that stuff.

DISCLAIMER: The only things I own are the plot and the OCs. I honestly could own anything else, I'm totally a starving student.

NAO, for your story!

LUV,  
Shawn~

* * *

This was, by far, the worst I think I'd ever felt, ever.

All I could feel was gauze. Gauze on my shoulder, gauze around my head, felt like gauze in my mouth, tasted it, felt it scratching against my shoulders, pulling at fresh scabs over fresh wounds.

I could smell the antiseptic of the hospital, a smell I'd always hated. My father was a surgeon, my mother was a nurse. You can guess how they met. Even then, I was the unlucky kid who always got hurt. Like, I've broken my nose twice, broken an arm and a foot. I know the smell of hospitals, from being there, and smelling it on my parents after their shifts.

My childhood wasn't even that happy. By all means, I should have had a great childhood, but my dad got the idea that he was better than my mother, and was squirreling money away for his mistress that my mother never knew about until he'd had his bags packed and was halfway to San Tropez, leaving her and me in his wake, reeling from the blow.

She wound up working doubles, and I was left by myself to do my own things. Music and photography became my best friends. Listening to my favourite artists kept me in my comfort zone, making my relationship with my mother strained at best. I kept the house running smoothly by myself, having my mother do as little work as possible.

She's said it makes her feel bad because she never did anything for me, but I really don't mind.

After high school, I went to college to get my Bachelor of Science, so I could become a CSI. I don't want to save the world, but I want people to know that those responsible for creating hurts against them will have been caught. My mother let my father go, and it's had such a negative effect on her that I can't let it happen to anyone else. I want them to have their happiness. The happiness I should have had.

***

The weeks slid by. I thanked my lucky stars for the health insurance offered by the school, and that my mom was smart enough to save money for such an occasion.

Every day was the same thing, like it always is. I'd wake up, eat oatmeal and a fruit cup for breakfast, have nurses change my dressings, watch The Price Is Right, eat an egg-salad sandwich or something similar and a Jell-O cup, watch some cooking shows, read some of my book, eat whatever was for dinner, another Jell-O cup, then go to bed, with the occasional top-up of medications.

Ugh, fuck.

Another week until I was discharged. I only had a little work to catch up to, then in eight months, I could graduate. At least I had a goal, I thought happily.

***

For Nick, the weeks crawled slower than frozen molasses. He had the Morningside and Hill attempted murder to attend to, he was waiting for a warrant for the case with the prostitute, the investment baker and dismembered Barbie dolls, _and_ he still had to find an apartment after the entire Nigel Crane affair.

He was standing at his worktable in the lab, looking over evidence in front of him. Months of gathering, and yet they still couldn't figure out who fired the shots. The bullets extracted from Cheryl Morningside and James Hill were indeed from a pistol, but they were a common caliber and could have been bought anywhere. The striations on the bullet matched nothing in the database, and Nick was drawing blanks.

Being at odds does not suit Nick Stokes. He's one to be dependable, to always have an answer, to not crack. His head was chaotic, his thoughts buzzing around like so many angry hornets, causing him to lose focus often or think randomly out loud, prompting odd looks from Warrick and Catherine. He ran a hand distractedly through his hair, trying to see something he hadn't seen before, and gave up with a sigh.

He decided it would be better to traipse off to the break room before spontaneous combustion wound up choosing him as its next target. He pulled the door open to the break room, and groaned in exasperation. No coffee left.

"Damn," he mutters under his breath.

"Don't worry," came a serene, warm voice from Nick's left. "I'm making a new pot. I managed to find Greg's secondary, back-up stash. No Blue Hawaiian, but I'm sure he wouldn't be too happy to find out I'd pilfered that." His face lit up with a coy, conspiratorial half-smile.

Nick, caught clearly off-guard, composed himself quickly, but was still rather flustered by the unfamiliar face.

"I, uh… who are you exactly?"

"Jamie Hill, the new assistant DNA tech." He promptly put down the ugly brown coffee cup he was holding and sidled up to Nick, extending his right hand.

Nick shook it, wondering why his face was familiar. Then it hit him. He'd only been staring at the bloodied version of it for the last God knows how many months. The blue-green eyes, the brown hair, the defined cheekbones and angular jaw were becoming more familiar.

"Nick Stokes, I responded to your scene."

"Yeah, I remember you. You caught me as I was keeling over," said Jamie, with a wry smile. He shook a strand of brown hair out of his eyes. "I never did properly thank you. I don't know if I can, or not. You did so much for me that night, I don't know if there's words."

Nick flushed. "I'm not the only one who helped," he started, but was cut off by Jamie's hand being raised.

"No, you were the only one who noticed me. Everyone was more concerned about the lady with the blood leaking down her front." He didn't sound bitter. "If it hadn't been for you, it would have been a while."

Nick was hoping for a distraction, and his wishes were granted. He was highly uncomfortable in these humanizing situations, where glaring faults of situations made him feel personally culpable. Instead of dwelling on these facts, he all but lunged towards the coffee maker, which announced its job being done with a shrill series of beeps.

After mixing in enough sugar sure to make Greg twitch, Nick beat a hasty retreat to his worktable and let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

Finally, after an indeterminable number of hours, minutes or seconds, Nick's shift was up. He headed to the locker room, heaving a sigh as he went. He exchanged his see you later's, and while leaving, almost bowled some unfortunate person over in his haste to leave his hectic thoughts about his cases behind him.

"Oh, I'm so, _so_ sorry," says Jamie, LVPD's newest lab rat, his face completely apologetic. The sheaf of papers he'd been carrying had pretty much exploded, for lack of a better word. "Damn it, I'd just gotten those organized, too." He sighed, clearly frustrated.

Nick immediately set to bending over to help collect the documents, seeing notes stuck to them. Having been used to Greg's cramped, untidy chicken scratch he likes to pass of as writing, Jamie's writing is a revelation in comparison. Clear, elegantly tilted and _legible_. All of it.

He shuffled them back into a neat stack, realizing he'd been staring at the man's _writing_, and hastily shoves the papers back into the folder, handing it to Jamie. He looked up when the folder wasn't taken from him immediately, and saw Jamie rummaging around in a pocket of the messenger bag he'd taken from his locker.

Jamie noticed the proffered folder, and rummaged a little deeper. He pulled out a baggie of what looked suspiciously like dog treats. He took the folder and placed it neatly on the bench.

"Thanks for picking those up for me, I just have to drop them off in Grissom's office before I leave tonight." He gestured in the general direction of Grissom's office, still with the dog treats in his hand. He held them out for Nick.

"Here, take those with you on your walk tonight, they might come in handy," said Jamie, with a slightly conspiratorial wink and a happy, disarming smile. This set Nick on edge, but he took the treats anyway, not really understanding why. But, before he could even ask why he would need them, Jamie had already turned on his heel and left the room, leaving a very confused Nick Stokes in his wake.

* * *

What's Jamie up to? I dunno. (I really do, but I'm not gonna tell you 'til later... marharhar)

Sooo, I have no idea when the next update's gonna be, maybe soon, maybe later, and I honestly didn't intend for the last part to be kinda funny. Dunno, maybe it's a good path for the story to take, and maybe I'll change the genre of it later, depending how it plays out. Maybe it's just something that revolves around Jamie, disarrayed paper and doggie cookies. Who knows? Even I don't at this point. Oh wells.

As above, reviews are loved (and needed, and appreciated, and valued, and all that other junk)!

Anywho,  
I luvv you all,  
Shawn~


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